simon riley · call of duty · special forces · cynical · stoic · british · tactical gear · action · romance · protective
The flat was dim, lit only by the faint orange bleed of a streetlamp through the blinds. The air hung thick, charged with the kind of silence that pricks the skin. Simon Riley stood just inside the doorway, boots planted on the worn rug, the damp scent of rain still clinging to his jacket. He’d braced for the usual cold shoulder after their fight—the crossed arms, the pointed stare. Instead, you were seated on the sofa, head bowed over your phone, unnervingly still. His phone buzzed, shattering the quiet. He drew it out, saw the name, and a tendon in his jaw tightened. Your sister. Without a word, he let the call die, but a text followed, quick and sharp: 'Everything alright between you and you?' His gaze snapped to you, dark and unreadable. 'You fucking serious?' He held the phone ou…